eyes narrowed dangerously, and a cold shiver rippled Kathleen's spine at the intensity of the anger she saw there.
He stretched out a hand, and Kathleen flinched. Lightly tracing the scar that ran along her cheek with one finger, he laughed softly. "And you, Cataline, are no lady. We're rogues, both of us."
At his touch that seared like a hot iron, Kathleen's mouth parched. "Don't!" she croaked.
Simon's gaze ran over her face, as if baffled by something. "You're right," he said. "What we are is neither here nor there. We both understand how we feel about one another."
He reached into a drawer and handed her a sheaf of papers. "There's a list of names included. Make out invitations to the families for the fiesta next week. When you've finished, Diego will see that the invitations are delivered."
Kathleen glanced at some of the names on the list, names of the most prominent families in the California province. Many she had met at the Escandón fiesta: Carrillo, Bandini, Pico -- liberals who favored secularization and separation of political and military commands; Vallejo, Alvarado, and Castro -- conservatives who supported the rule of militarism.
Kathleen looked up at Simon. "I'd not thought you the type of man to pretend interest in politics."
Simon quirked a brow. "You, yourself, ought to understand the benefits of pretense."
"No better than you, vaquero!" she retorted, whirling from him and slamming the door behind her.
* * * * *
The first guests began arriving early that morning, in time for the horse races and the games of chance, such as monte and chuza, which resembled roulette, and the games of skill, the most popular being the carrera de gallo.
In the carrera, Diego told Kathleen, the horseman would ride at top speed toward a line of roosters, buried neck-high in the sand fifty feet apart, and grab at the roosters' heads. The rider who unearthed the most roosters won the contest. Later in the afternoon a barbeque was to be held, followed by the bear-baiting and rodeo.
None of these games did Kathleen watch. Not only because she was busy seeing that everything ran smoothly, but also because she found the sports of the caballeros cruel. It was bad enough when Amelia told her that the magnificent brown bear had been defeated, had been gored to death by a gret black bull.
However, as Kathleen helped Maria Jesus in the kitchen, the flat faced old woman gently shoved at Kathleen's back. "Vaya, Señorita Catalina. You're young -- enjoy yourself!"
Kathleen would have protested, but the cook practically pushed her out onto the veranda. From the arena came the musical calls of the vaqueros: "Hooch, hooch, hooch! Who-hah! Who-hah!"
With a sign of resignation, Kathleen wiped her hands on her black broadcloth skirt and made her way to the crowd gathered about the arena. Rather than join the guests in the stands, she found a vacant spot near one of the stalls, where she had a much better view anyway.
Inside the corralled area the cows bellowed and puffed and tossed their heads at the vaqueros. Dressed in a Mexican beaded vest of porcupine quills and in concho-ornamented chaparejos, Simon looked impressive as his Spanish cow pony cut first to the left and then the right, finally cornering a monstrous Andalusian bull. With a swish of the slender rawhide riata, Simon lassoed the bull's rear legs, bringing the animal to the ground in a whirlpool of dust.
Any moment Kathleen expected one of the sharp-horned bulls to gore a vaquero. But there occurred in the following minutes a mishap of a different nature. Amelia's novio, Julio, had just lassoed a calf, when the turn of his delavuelta about the saddle horn hopped, pinching off the first joint of his thumb. He half-slid, half-fell from his horse, and before anyone realized what had happened, Kathleen, who was nearest the vaquero, slipped through the slats and ran to him.
Within seconds Simon was there also, whipping his black handkerchief from his neck and tying it about
He stretched out a hand, and Kathleen flinched. Lightly tracing the scar that ran along her cheek with one finger, he laughed softly. "And you, Cataline, are no lady. We're rogues, both of us."
At his touch that seared like a hot iron, Kathleen's mouth parched. "Don't!" she croaked.
Simon's gaze ran over her face, as if baffled by something. "You're right," he said. "What we are is neither here nor there. We both understand how we feel about one another."
He reached into a drawer and handed her a sheaf of papers. "There's a list of names included. Make out invitations to the families for the fiesta next week. When you've finished, Diego will see that the invitations are delivered."
Kathleen glanced at some of the names on the list, names of the most prominent families in the California province. Many she had met at the Escandón fiesta: Carrillo, Bandini, Pico -- liberals who favored secularization and separation of political and military commands; Vallejo, Alvarado, and Castro -- conservatives who supported the rule of militarism.
Kathleen looked up at Simon. "I'd not thought you the type of man to pretend interest in politics."
Simon quirked a brow. "You, yourself, ought to understand the benefits of pretense."
"No better than you, vaquero!" she retorted, whirling from him and slamming the door behind her.
* * * * *
The first guests began arriving early that morning, in time for the horse races and the games of chance, such as monte and chuza, which resembled roulette, and the games of skill, the most popular being the carrera de gallo.
In the carrera, Diego told Kathleen, the horseman would ride at top speed toward a line of roosters, buried neck-high in the sand fifty feet apart, and grab at the roosters' heads. The rider who unearthed the most roosters won the contest. Later in the afternoon a barbeque was to be held, followed by the bear-baiting and rodeo.
None of these games did Kathleen watch. Not only because she was busy seeing that everything ran smoothly, but also because she found the sports of the caballeros cruel. It was bad enough when Amelia told her that the magnificent brown bear had been defeated, had been gored to death by a gret black bull.
However, as Kathleen helped Maria Jesus in the kitchen, the flat faced old woman gently shoved at Kathleen's back. "Vaya, Señorita Catalina. You're young -- enjoy yourself!"
Kathleen would have protested, but the cook practically pushed her out onto the veranda. From the arena came the musical calls of the vaqueros: "Hooch, hooch, hooch! Who-hah! Who-hah!"
With a sign of resignation, Kathleen wiped her hands on her black broadcloth skirt and made her way to the crowd gathered about the arena. Rather than join the guests in the stands, she found a vacant spot near one of the stalls, where she had a much better view anyway.
Inside the corralled area the cows bellowed and puffed and tossed their heads at the vaqueros. Dressed in a Mexican beaded vest of porcupine quills and in concho-ornamented chaparejos, Simon looked impressive as his Spanish cow pony cut first to the left and then the right, finally cornering a monstrous Andalusian bull. With a swish of the slender rawhide riata, Simon lassoed the bull's rear legs, bringing the animal to the ground in a whirlpool of dust.
Any moment Kathleen expected one of the sharp-horned bulls to gore a vaquero. But there occurred in the following minutes a mishap of a different nature. Amelia's novio, Julio, had just lassoed a calf, when the turn of his delavuelta about the saddle horn hopped, pinching off the first joint of his thumb. He half-slid, half-fell from his horse, and before anyone realized what had happened, Kathleen, who was nearest the vaquero, slipped through the slats and ran to him.
Within seconds Simon was there also, whipping his black handkerchief from his neck and tying it about
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